


Bezique

by author_in_the_making



Category: Hazbin Hotel
Genre: Alastor’s complete disregard for people’s feelings, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Backstory, Cannibalism, Gambling, Grown men discovering feelings, Husk and Alastor are emotionally constipated, Husk’s colorful vocabulary, It's gonna make sense i swear, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Narrator uses free indirect speech at times, Occasional poetry, Pre-Canon, Pre-pilot, Slow Burn, Will add tags as I go, both of them are also assholes, did I mention slow burn?, hopefully i’ll give these two a good ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_in_the_making/pseuds/author_in_the_making
Summary: Husk has an affinity for attracting trouble, both in his life and death. Enter Alastor.
Relationships: Alastor/Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 141





	1. In Duplicate

**Author's Note:**

> “Bézique is a game for two players. The piquet pack of thirty-two cards is used, but in duplicate, two such packs of like pattern being shuffled together.”  
> —Hoyle's Games Modernized

No amount of Sunday school could have prepared Husk for this. To be fair, he did not care much for religion and all the moral baggage it entailed. And even if he did, any promises of redemption would have been outright laughable, what with his questionable career choices and lifestyle. Husk harbored no illusions to as where he’d end up if all the lengthy harangues of those bible thumpers held any veracity to them. Still, Husk expected his afterlife to be more fire and brimstone and less bad acid trip.

Time seemed to have no meaning wherever the hell Husk was. He was suspended in an infinite monotonous loop, his consciousness flickering on and off like a busted light bulb. His thoughts echoed and overlapped in an endless void. He felt nothing and everything all at once and in duplicate. He wonders how one can be deprived of all sensory stimuli and yet be overwhelmed.

His soul had taken on a fluid quality. Its numerous dendrites streteched over the vast expanse of space, wedging themselves between the threads that held Husk's current reality together. He felt that he too was infinite and that he would continue to stretch until his entire being enclosed upon itself.

All religious beliefs be damned, none of them would have anticipated the abyss that is Husk’s life after death.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to break the cycle. Considering the type of character he was in his life, Husk supposes that this was a tame punishment. He’d be lying if he said that he looking forward to the end of whatever phase of the afterlife he was in. That didn’t mean he wasn’t bored. Husk thought that he would eventually learn to acquiesce with the cards he was dealt with in death. Whenever he starts to feel accustomed to the drone of eternal damnation the world seems to restart, leaving him as a blank slate once again. But aftef every cycle he knew that he’d been through this ordeal already. The lingering sense of deja vu was so strong that Husk almost felt it as if it were an itch that had penetrated into the deepest layers of his skin. It would have driven him to insanity if whatever deity who put him here would allow it. He’d tear all the hair from his head, gouge his eyes out with his fingernails, or bash his head against a hard surface if it meant feeling something other than absolute tedium.

Husk felt a looming sense of danger every time he gets close to some semblance of cognizance. And every time he draws near to the truth he unconsciously retreats back to the safety of vast nothingness. The border between this strange fever dream and whatever awaits him afterwards eludes him and will continue to elude him until Husk finally gave up.

And after what felt like a few centuries, Husk had accepted his fate. In reality, he had been dead for less than a day. His experience was no different than the millions of souls that had arrived on this side of hell. The unfortunate bastards that have managed to land in one of hell's many Malebolgia get to experience an infinitude of existential dread before they manifest into their corporeal forms. Husk, who always lucked out in his days as a gambler, had the misfortune of ending up in the Evil Ditches. He was halfway done through the ordeal when he broke, which was more than could be said for the many lesser souls that spiralled within these pits of despair.

Unbeknowst to Husk and co., the Malebolgia were prime waiting spots for opportunists who subsist on the souls of the damned, plucking the poor suckers straight from the source before they even had a fighting chance in hell. These demons had been gluttons of the highest order in their lives, making their insatiable hunger a befitting punishment. However, the area surrounding the pits were free of any of the said demons. Not a single denizen of hell could be found miles from the usually lively buffet circuit save for one.

The air around the Malebolgia held a certain staticky feeling to it. The atmosphere hummed with electricity, and the ground carried a charged energy. This was the subdued kind of chaos the Radio Demon emanated when he was not in the mood for bloodshed. Nevertheless any demon had the good sense to avoid being within Alastor's line of sight, regardless of whether or not he was feeling particularly murderous.

The overlord treaded around the edges of the Malebolgia. He watched the newly departed souls spiral as sulphuric fumes arose from the pits. Typically, Alastor would rather terrorize the denizens of hell that already had their fleshy forms. Nothing beats the gratification of sinking one's teeth into warm viscera.

However, with the recent annual extermination foot traffic around the main districts were at an all time low. There was an unspoken rule that allowed the inhabitants of hell a chance to recuperate post-massacre. Alastor was no stickler for peace and order, but he adhered to this grace period if it meant that he got to pull the rug under hell's feet as soon as it went through its natural course of recovery.

The incorporeal (i.e., the souls in the Malebolgia) just didn't have any substance in them. No tough viscera to chew on, no bones to fracture, and no marrow to scrape. They left an unpleasant aftertaste not so different from overripe fruit, but they would suffice. 

Now, there is a certain art to handpicking the damned fit for consumption. Alastor has a knack of knowing whether a soul was too potent or insipid for his liking. After all, one gains a better understanding of the various states of a sinner's decay once they had spent decades partaking the devil's supper. Souls that have fought too hard in limbo end being too flavorful. On the other hand, those who had resigned to their fates early on barely tasted like anything. Alastor was looking to strike a balance between the two. 

Just when he was about to take his pick, he sensed an anomaly in one of the nearby ditches. 

The overlord walked towards and crouched near a smaller than average Malebolge. Something had drawn him to that particular pit and he had to find it. And lo and behold there was a distinct soul among the multitude of others. Alastor could tell that it was one of the more potent ones. Personally, he would have preferred something milder and less derelict. He suspects that he won't end up eating this one. 

Alastor produced his cane and dipped it into the slurry of souls. The sentient microphone attached to the cane let out a petulant whine. Upon hearing its protests the demon's smile grew something sinister, immediately putting an end to the mic's complaints. He fished around the Malebolge until his preferred soul had caught on the shaft. With a gracious flick of his wrist the premature demon was thrown along a tall parabola and landed on the asphalt with an inelegant splat next to Alastor's feet. 

What once was intangible clutter of emotions started to shift to something material. The soul blob metamorphosed into a more antrhropomorphic figure. It squirmed in pain as new bones grew within its ethereal vessel. Fragile skin began to coat its body as new limbs sprouted. 

One, two, three, four, five? Alastor counted five appendages, with the tail being the fifth one. Perhaps it would take on the form of a dog, he thought distastefully.

Dark fur grew all over the newly formed demon. It had a tall, scrawny build, and it looked like it was about to surpass Alastor in height. An ungodly hiss came from the demon as a set of wings jutted out from its spiny scapula. Six, seven appendages to account for. Sharp claws emerged from its fingers and toes. They forcibly penetrated through their owner’s skin, leaving a bloody mess out of its extremities. The transformation had finally come to a stop. 

The unnamed demon lied prostrate on hell’s surface, and it had no intention of moving. Based on its lithe physique Alastor inferred that his latest victim’s demon form was more likely to be a cat than a dog. 

In an instant the demon regained its consciousness. It rolled over and stood up in record time. The only thing stopping it from falling back into a Malebolge was Alastor’s frame. It turned around to see what he had bumped into. 

“Alastor, Radio Demon! A pleasure to meet you!”

The newcomer struggles to stand upright, a frown forms on his forehead. He sees the overlord in front of him, hand extended forward, and suddenly he’s angry. What the fuck did this fruity bastard think he’s doing disturbing his eternity of limbo? More importantly, why did he feel the urge to hiss?

“Husk,” frown forming on his forehead. “Can’t say the same.”

The air around them jolts. Record scratch, freeze frame. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Husk fucked up within the first few seconds of existing in hell. It started to dawn upon him that the lanky guy in front of him, Radio Demon, he calls himself, was a big deal in these parts. If Husk wronged him in any way it didn’t show on the overlord’s face. He’s still smiling so maybe he’s considerate with the newbies, Husk foolishly thought. 

“Aren’t you wondering where we are this fine afternoon? Care to take a guess? There are no wrong answers.” 

Husk let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Maybe the Radio Demon excused his moment of rudeness after all. The fruity bastard (he decided that would be Alastor’s nickname in his head from now on) talked like he was running out of time but could never seem to be out of breath. He had a familiar inflection that Husk couldn’t quite place. It reminded him the Westerns he had watched in his youth—complete with the grainy sound quality. 

“We’re in hell.” he replied much slowly than his companion. 

“Right you are, Husker!”

“Husk.”

Alastor’s microphone emitted a tinny sound. Husk’s enhanced hearing would have been able to pick it up had he not been annoyed with the guy. 

“Say, Husker, let’s pick up this conversation some other time. Normally, I charge upfront, but just for you I’ll send the bill some other time.”

Now, Husk was confused. “Bill? The fuck do I owe you for?”

“Why, I took it upon myself to rescue you from an eternity of bleak desolation!“ Alastor almost looked offended. “If it weren’t for me you’d be stuck with the poor dupes down those Malebolgia.” 

Only the Radio Demon could sound sadistic while talking about an act of charity. 

“Male- what? What am I supposed to then?” Husk could feel his wings flare up. Huh, neat. 

“My, aren’t you just full of questions.” Alastor’s amusement did nothing to ease Husk’s exasperation. He had half a mind to sucker punch the smug prick. Before he could act upon his thoughts, the overlord started talking again. 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Welcome to hell! Abyssinia.” And with a tap of his cane the Radio Demon disappeared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is my first time writing fanfic so don’t expect too much lol. I’m doing this because of the criminal lack of Radio Husk content in this site. This is my poor attempt at being the change I want to see in the world. I do have an actual structure for the story in mind, and I intend on finishing this fic. Having said all this, I am still making most of this stuff up as I go and I cannot promise a consistent update schedule. Obligatory English is not my first language. Criticism is welcome, and I would appreciate the feedback.


	2. Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In poker lingo, the term ‘fish’ is used to describe an extremely unskilled player who tends to play a loose game, but remains passive regardless of the situation at the table, or makes aggressive moves when he shouldn't”.
> 
> Alternative chapter title: The Sinner’s Prayer

“Son of a bitch!” Husk snatched at the empty space where Alastor stood a few seconds ago. The creepy asshole had the nerve to leave him high and dry after spouting some cryptic nonsense. 

The veil of static was lifted upon the Radio Demon’s departure. His absence could probably be felt from miles away. Without the grainy interference, Husk saw hell in all its rufescent glory. The sky was shrouded with a tint of hazy copper, overcast with the fumes that rose from the Malebolgia. In lieu of a celestial body, the surroundings were illuminated by a crimson pentagram etched high above.

_So, this is hell_ , Husk thought disdainfully. 

First order of business, getting the fuck out of this honeycomb of Malebolgia. Luckily, Husk was situated near the edge of the network of ditches. He carefully treaded along the margin of the Malebolge he was forcibly extracted from. The demon was tempted to dive back into the vile brew of sinners and continue his eternity of oblivion. 

As if Alastor could hear his thoughts, the Malebolge gurgled violently and spat out its concoction on Husk’s chest. The searing pain took a second to register, and when it did Husk threw away all caution and ran to the safety of flat, ditchless land. 

He’d curse some deity or the Devil himself if he didn’t have to risk being struck down on the spot. And for the first time in many years, Husk allowed himself to break down in frustration. 

_(Our Devil, who art in hell, damned be thy name)._

* * *

The sky was starting to lose its stale glow. Husk wasn’t ready to take his leave but he also didn’t want to stay long enough to find out what unholy creatures lurked in the night. It was dim enough to see the city lights faintly from the distance. Like a moth drawn to the flame, Husk allowed himself to be oriented by the sallow beacon of the metropolis. 

Surprisingly, the rest of civilization wasn’t too far from the Malebolgia. Within a few minutes of walking he was able to encounter a peculiar entourage of characters. Husk tried his best not to stare, lest he provokes some unhinged bastard. Each demon was a grotesque, discordant puzzle with incompatible body parts meshed into a single individual. It looked like someone had given life to a disturbed child’s sketchbook. Disturbing taste, dreadful execution. 

Husk wonders what kind of monster he ended up looking like. He’d have to find a mirror or at least a reflective surface soon. 

The path he was following eventually led to a paved street. The strip was lined with rows of shops and restaurants, most of which were closed. The stores sold a variety of items, from clothing to sex paraphernalia. Husk mentally told himself to return to this area to purchase some necessities. By that he meant clothes, mind you, not the freaky sex shit. 

Husk’s stroll around the tamer side of hell reminded him that he still had several issues that needed to be addressed. How was he going to afford the crap he needed? Where would he stay? It wasn’t as if there were seminars that he could attend. Maybe there were but Alastor had streamlined the process by prematurely dragging him out of the Malebolge thus skipping the entire _Hell 101: Housing and Employment_ part of the introduction. 

And there was the Alastor problem he needed to deal with in an undeclared date. 

Husk considered mugging some smaller demon for a bit of cash. They use cash in these parts, right? But for some reason the streets were near empty and there wasn’t a potential victim in sight. One less crime to be added to his litany of sins, he scoffed. And so he trudged on despondently. 

The closer Husk got to the heart of the city the bigger and more sinister the structures towered over him. Advertisments were plastered everywhere. Propositions of sex were graffitied where pedestrians could easily take a gander at them. Skyscrapers lightly grazed the stratosphere with their sharp antennae. Husk traced their height with his gaze and saw that some buildings even pierced through the twilight sky, their highest points obscured by the haze given off by the Malebolgia. In the center stood an impressive clocktower. A countdown timer was affixed below the clock. 

_Next cleanse: 361 Days_ , it read. _Great_. Another thing to add to Husk's growing list of problems. 

He really needed that Hell 101 class right now.

* * *

Husk wasn’t sure how long he had been aimlessly walking through the citadel. For some reason he ended up at one of the seedier parts of hell, as clearly indicated by the sheer amount of brothels, casinos, bars, and other dens of iniquity. As above, so below; hell had its own Vegas, not that Vegas wasn’t a mini hell in its own right. Wherever Husk was felt like sin distilled and concentrated in a strange cul-de-sac. _(Thy inferno come, thy debauchery be done on Earth as it is in hell)._

Husk decided that he liked it here. He stared longingly at the flashing signposts. _Booze, Poker, and Drugs_ , they promised. _(Give us today our daily vice)_. He could almost hear the winning ding of a slot machine, the clink of brandy glasses, and the crackle of a newly lit cigar. Either he was hallucinating or experiencing his Satan-given enhanced hearing at its maximum. He had to get out of this joint. 

As much as the cat demon wanted to partake in hell’s many pleasures, he just didn’t have the funds. If there was one thing those annoying evangelists got right is that you don’t get to bring your earthly possessions into the afterlife. Husk would have traded his war medals for a stack of casino chips. _(And excuse us our trespasses)_. He ponders on whether his relatives had buried him with any of his awards and decorations or if they had pawned them off. He concludes that the latter was more likely on account of his siblings being conniving pricks. Husk reckons he’d probably be seeing them in hell soon. _(As we spite those who trespass against us)._

* * *

The nightlife district was as deserted as the main citadel and the shop lane he first arrived at. There was one demon sweeping the sidewalk outside a pub and that was it. 

Husk considered swallowing his pride and approaching the guy for...something, he guesses. He isn’t really too big on social cues, but he assumes that the demon wasn’t gonna immediately beat the living daylights out of him if he had presented his queries. The demon was at least a foot smaller than him, but he had a wider frame, which was emphasized by his silver mane. He loosely resembled a lion, if the said lion had a Komodo dragon as one of its parents. Husk doubts that he could take the lizard-cat hybrid on in a fight. That leaves mugging him out of the question. 

“Ya looking for something, kid?” The stranger interrupted Husk in the middle of his musings. He wondered if the guy could hear his thoughts. “Yeah, you! You look lost. You new?"

"Yeah." He reluctantly answered but made no move to approach him. _(And lead us not to salvation)._

The demon set his broom aside and gestured for Husk to follow him. "You look like you need a drink," he says with a fellow feeling of understanding that Husk wouldn't expect from anyone in hell. He found himself questioning how many demons like him have found themselves in a similar situation and how many of them had this stranger entertained. 

Husk was at a crossroads. He could either bury his doubts for the meantime and just go through the motions or try his luck at some other establishment. 

Sensing his discomfort, the demon warily approached Husk. "Look, we've established that you're new here and I know for a fact that ya got no place to go." Husk hated it when people pointed out the obvious.

He dug around his pockets and produced a sheet of paper. "But I got something that can solve both of our problems." He handed Husk the folded flyer. 

_HELP WANTED. Apply inside._ He couldn’t believe it. 

"See, my head bartender got caught up in the recent extermination. Shit happens," he said as if the deaths of his employees were a normal occurrence. "So I'm looking for a replacement. You look like someone who knows his booze." 

"Sure, I did some bartending back then,” Husk tries to recall his past jobs but any attempts to remember his time on Earth slipped his grasp. Come to think of it, he barely had any recollection about his life. He wasn’t even sure that Husk was his real name. All he knew was that he was an asshole and he did enough shady shit to land him here. He decided he’d open that can of worms some other time. 

“What else do I have to do?" The cat demon asked after putting beside his new revelations. 

“How good are ya with, say, customer service?”

Without missing a beat, Husk replied. “I can knock the shit out of anyone causing a scene.” 

Husk must have said something right because his potential employer just gave him a subtle smirk of approval. He almost missed it if it weren’t for the telltale glimmer of a canine. Husk wonders if he just walked into the jaws of a predator. 

“Name's Balthazar, but everyone calls me Bill. You start later this evening at happy hour."

His new boss turned on his heel and walked towards the pub’s entrance. As soon as Balthazar stood below the doorframe a tacky neon sign above the building that read _White Lion Outpost_ started to flicker into life. Installed next to it was an animated neon wire sculpture, which Husk thought was overkill, depicting a crudely made lion drinking from a beer mug. The entire fixture was lit for a second only to go out with a resounding pop immediately after. 

“Ah, goddamnit! I’ll have to get someone to fix that. God forbid my maintenance man was dumb enough to get killed during the cleanse.” 

_(But deliver us from the Exterminators, Amen)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to everyone who left a comment and kudos! Things will start picking in the next chapter. Hey, maybe Alastor will make an appearance or something. 
> 
> Stay inside and stay safe this quarantine :>>


	3. Beginner's Luck

His first night at the White Lion was uneventful. The denizens of hell were still shaken up by the extermination, and the only demons undaunted enough to go to the pub made themselves scarce. And the best part for Husk was they tipped generously. Overall, it wasn't _too_ bad for a newbie like him. He had landed a job, a place to stay, and a ended up with little bit of cash all within the span of a few hours. Husk even forgot about his encounter with Alastor as if it were a death-induced fever dream, a distant memory from days past. 

Husk found that the liquor in the afterlife wasn’t so different from the ones in the land of the living. Although the back bar was stocked with the essentials, there were bottles he couldn't recognize. 

Some of them contained dubious ingredients, and Husk swears on his tail that their contents moved when they didn't think he was looking. When he asked his boss what was the deal with the strange booze, all he got were vague answers.

"Eh, something local", Bill left it at that. 

But considering the Bloody Mary’s they served at those yuppie bars, a little bit of mystery innards in his drink didn't seem too bad to Husk. It got him drunk all the same. 

Bill introduced Husk to the bar’s staff, which was composed of two waiters and a junior bartender. Husk shared a rented room above the White Lion with one of the employees, a scrappy one-eyed demon that went by Cyril. She had arrived in hell decades before Husk died and has been working as a waitress for the White Lion ever since. He noted look of pity everyone gave him after the introductions were said and done. Felix, the part-time bartender, stuck around to explain. 

_“_ Boss and I have a running bet on how long you’re gonna last with Cyril", he offered Husk a cigarette. 

_Marlboro Reds_ , his favorite. Husk lit the cancer stick with Felix's flaming hair, which earned him a glare. "Yeah", _drag, drag, puff._ “Why is that?”

“Let’s just say if the Exterminators don’t get you, then her cooking will", Felix visibly shivered.

“Easy. I’ll just buy my own fucking food then.”

“Hah! Good luck escaping Cyril.”

After a week or so, the bar goers slowly trickled in. Soon, the White Lion Outpost was packed with the regulars that had survived the exterminations. Many of them were surprised to see a new face behind the bar counter, but so long as Husk made their drinks right they didn’t mind. He seemed to fit right in with the merry band of misfits. 

Aside from the annoying coworkers (e.g., Cyril), and the occasional drunken brawls, his job was an absolute breeze. Today proven to be different. One of the "big shots" (Cyril's wording, not his) at the VIP table decided to order a White Lion Special, the lovechild between a Bloody Mary and a Long Island Iced Tea with a Roentgen count rivaling that of Chernobyl. Creating it is a laudable feat to say the least. Husk didn't understand the appeal. He figured that if you were going to have a specialty drink then it should be somewhat palatable and safe for consumption. Nothing in the White Lion Special fit those criteria. If anything, it should be considered a health hazard and above all, an insult to each and every cocktail known to man, woman, and demon. Between the whole pineapple plant and the whipped egg whites, Husk wasn't sure what ingredient he despised arranging more. 

Cyril saw her coworker struggling with the order that resembled an art exhibit more than an alcoholic drink. 

_Pick Your Poison, 1974. Methanol in glass, 6 x 9 inches._

She impatiently flicked off the pieces of fruit that had fallen off the overloaded cocktail.

“So", a pomegranate seed found its way to Husk's bow tie. "Where were you from when, you know, you were still-“ 

Husk sighed and wiped the excess sriracha dripping the the glass' rim. “Here’s the deal. You don’t ask about my past and I won’t ask about yours."

“Good. That shit's depressing anyway, but the boss said I should chat you up, establish rapport and all that.” Cyril rolled her eye. She stole a shot of gin from the tray Husk was preparing. 

“We’ll talk about rapport as soon as you start doing your share of chores."

Cyril stuck her tongue out and took another shot of gin. 

“Oi, stop slacking off!” Husk quickly refilled the replenished glasses. “And bring this shit to those assholes over there before I stab your eye out with a zester.” 

“Sir, yessir, Mr. Hitler sir!" Cyril mock saluted then haphazardly balanced the tray of drinks on her head. “And Bill says it’s okay as long as I don’t get drunk on the clock!” and with that, she took her leave. 

The waitress navigated through the sea of patrons with practiced ease. Husk couldn't help but stare in awe at how skillfully she weaved through the drunken crowd. The bar goers that were sober enough to notice the little demon gave way, and those who weren't gawked at the sheer size of the White Lion Special. His gaze followed Cyril up until the point she reached the VIP table, and she did it all without spilling a drop to boot. 

The aforementioned assholes perked up at the sight of their drinks. The entire table ogled at Cyril. Their lechery practically dripped off in waves. The guy that was presumably their boss had ordered the offending drink. He tried to make a pass at their waitress with his many writhing tendrils. Cyril avoided all of his appendages with the dexterity of someone who has dealt with too many of these douchebags in a lifetime. 

Husk felt the hair on the arch of his back stand up. His claws left deep impressions on the wooden counter top. They were in _hell_ , but even the cat demon had to admit that they were sleazy even by his standards. Fortunately, Cyril was able to escape the uncomfortable situation with the same grace she possessed when she entered the lions' den.

"Those jerks botherin' you, kid?" Husk said more aggressively than he intended. 

Cyril snorted and straightened her bow tie, "Nothing I can't manage, old man."

"Whatever, just say the word and uh, you know the rest." The bartender tried to pass off his words as indifferent but his body language said otherwise. His claws dug deeper into the wood, creating branching cracks on the surface. 

Cyril, sensing her coworker's agitation, went behind the counter and gave him a playful nudge. "Hey, the moment they step outta line, you, me, and Bill can go give them a good beating out back." 

Husk was satisfied (for now) and retracted his claws. "What's their deal anyway?" 

"Those guys over there work for Valentino. 'Cause of that they think they're untouchable."

"And who the fuck is Valentino?"

Cyril gave him an odd look, but a wave a understanding immediately took over her features. "I keep forgetting that you're new here. Valentino's one of the Overlords. He owns the porn studio a few blocks away."

"Let me get this straight," Husk pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hell is run by glorified pimps and their flunkies, and they can somehow sustain a society with what, adult films and prostitution?"

"Well, Lucifer _is_ still the head honcho. But the Overlords are there to ah, _micromanage_ us lowly demons inside thePentagram." Cyril chuckled and leaned back on the counter. "And it's only Valentino who's into that porn shit. Others supervise the important things, like electricity or the media." 

"What about the demons outside the Pentagram? Who's the boss of 'em?"

Cyril's expression darkened, "It's full blown anarchy in there. Before mister and missus Original Sin got here, before the Pentagram, and before the White Lion, some of Lucifer's creations and god's 'first drafts' already made their home in hell."

"Mister and missus _what_? Like, Adam an-" Husk was cut mid-sentence with a smack behind his head. 

"Ay, Tweedledipshit and Tweedledumbass!" Felix's flames threatened to scorch the ceiling. "Maybe you can do your jobs 'stead of having a heart-to-heart in the middle of rush hour."

* * *

In addition to alcohol and testosterone, there are many different elements that can incite a bar fight. For example, the standing piano in the corner of the White Lion. By itself, the instrument does not pose a threat to the well-being of the patrons. But adding an overzealous performer to the mix makes their situation more perilous. 

"Look at Gershwin over there," Cyril nodded to the direction of the wannabe pianist. He had been attempting– _attempting_ being the operative word here–to play Chopsticks for the past hour, much to the dismay of the entire pub.

"The next diad is an E and G, dumbass. What’s so hard about that?" Husk muttered to himself. 

Strangely enough, the pianist made it past the first two measures and got the notes right. The bar gave a collective sigh of relief. Their solace was short lived because he immediately fell flat on the fifth measure. _Literally._ All the notes that the sheet music called for were toned down by half a semitone by the player, if Husk's hearing serves him correctly. 

The pianist picked up from the start. Husk listened with bated breath for the dreaded note change. He should have lowered his expectations because the guy was immediately back at square one. His mistake was met with the groans of protest of the drinkers. 

"I've fucking had it with this tone-deaf cunt!" some burly demon stood up from the middle of the bar. Husk could feel a headache starting to form. Before he could de-escalte the situation, the pianist decided to dignify the brute's critique with a response. 

He faced his offender, "Why don't you come here and say that to my face, punk!" 

"Hey, hey, hey! Fuckin' behave yourselves. There ain't gonna be any fights on my watch," Husk decided that now would be the best moment to intervene. He went out from behind the counter and placed himself in between the two demons' line of sight.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to sit do-", and without warning, the demon lunged at him and tried to take a bite at his throat. Husk had been trying to pry the jaw away from his neck when the pianist from earlier got ahold of a beer bottle and smashed it on his attacker. Husk immediately closed his eyes as bits of glass cut through his cheek. The bartender used the distraction to knee his assailant on the groin and to roll over before the drunk falls and crushes him. 

The critic headbutted the musician, causing him to fall over. He stood up and sluggishly limped to deliver his final blow. Kneeling over the barely conscious musician, he opened his mouth wider with a sickening crack. Rows of teeth began to emerge from his palate. He lowered his mouth to bite, no, to _devour_ the annoying pianist. But before he could inflict more harm, Husk knocked him out with a barstool then kicked him in the stomach for good measure. 

"Alright. Who else wants to stir shit up?"

* * *

The onlookers parted as he dragged their heavy bodies to the door. The two brawlers left a trail a blood and various demonic fluids (and an injured Husk) in their wake. Husk wasn't too worried about the mess; it was Cyril's turn for cleaning duty. 

"It's time to go home, boys," Husk kicked the doors open and behind them was the last demon he wanted to see.

“Husker!” Alastor greeted him with his trademark smile. If he didn't need to dispose of the unruly bar patrons, Husk would have slammed the door at his face. 

“Pardon my sudden visit but I was in the area, and it would have been a wasted opportunity if I didn’t stop by.” The Radio Demon stepped aside so Husk could discard the offenders.

“Fuck off, I don’t owe you shit. And it's _Husk._ ” He turned around, but the Radio Demon had appeared in front of him inside the White Lion. After muttering some expletives, he walked past Alastor and headed towards his station.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, my feline fellow," heads turned and the bar grew silent, the excitement from the previous fight dying out in an instant. Half of the demons kept their heads down and other half stared at the Radio Demon in open suspicion. 

"I’ve declared your debt null and void. This is simply a social visit."

Husk made eye contact with Cyril and gave her a pleading look. _How can I shake this guy off?_ The waitress shook her head and went to the backroom to get cleaning supplies, presumably. Felix's shift had ended hours ago, leaving Husk as the only staff alone to deal with the fruity bastard.

“I see you’ve accustomed yourself with life in hell. And my, what a fine establishment you’re working at!”

“Oh my god," the audio feedback that occurred with Alastor's presence was amplified the the enclosed space of the building. It did nothing to assuage Husk's residual irritation from the earlier altercation. 

“Haha, he can’t hear you from here!” Alastor took a seat on one of the bar stools in front of the counter. All the nearby demons subtly got out of their seats to avoid the distorted shadows his lithe body cast. 

“I’m working. What do you want?" Husk unconsciously licked at one of his wounds, but he caught himself immediately. He wasn't going to allow himself to act like a docile house pet in front of the shady demon.

“Oh, straight to business, I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to waste your time. Now, let’s discuss your alternative means of employment.”

“Alastor," Husk felt weird saying his name for the first time. It was foreign on his tongue and unfamiliar to his ears. He surprised himself at how meek the word sounded coming out of his mouth, like it was forbidden or cursed. What was in a name, anyway? _Alastor_. A demon by any other name would be as menacing.

" _Al_ ," he repeated with more confidence. "I don't know with you but I don't feel like quitting my job anytime soon," Husk questioned himself on why he was even entertaining the Radio Demon. But he had a feeling that the asshole wouldn't take so kindly to rudeness.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your place of employment, dear. Think of this as a side hustle," Alastor stood and leaned over the cat demon's personal space. He stroked the swell of Husk's cheek with a gloved thumb, his other fingers leisurely rested on the right side of his face. 

“Now, that’s twice I’ve rendered my services, for free, might I add.” 

Before Husk could retort, a blistering heat spread over the patch of skin the Radio Demon traced. Instinctively, he brought a hand to his cheek and felt a raised welt of flesh where a cut should have been. 

“Again, I didn’t ask for any of this. Now, order something or scram. You’re scaring the customers," he congratulated himself for not being flustered.

“As they should be! One does not acquire an Overlord status without striking fear into the hearts of hell's denizens."

_Fuckfuckfuck, this bloke's an Overlord?_

"Mmm," Husk said, slightly strained. "You're just like that guy Valentino?"

The entire bar winced at the sharp hiss of static. Some patrons even mustered up the courage to glare at the Radio Demon and their bartender. 

"Al?" Husk tried to coax his companion out of whatever place his mind had stumbled into. 

"Goodness, no!" _Sigh._ Husk thought he'd broken the bastard. "That _cretin_ and I have nothing in common."

"I'm not big on politics. So, what's your deal?"

"Ah, so you're interested then?"

"Maybe. Why me?" _Jesus_ , Husk berated himself for sounding like a co-ed.

Alastor's smile grew and grew until it reached his ears. "A better question would be _why not?_ The moment I saw your grisly, tattered soul in the Malebolgia I knew I had to have you on my retainer. Your kind make for good entertainment," the shadows around Alastor grew in size and gyrated their dark tendrils, matching their master's enthusiasm. 

Husk, unfazed by the menacing display replied, "You think i'm some sorta clown!?" The bar goers looked at him pleadingly as if to implore _please, for fuck's sake, don't get us all killed._

The shadows shrank back to their owner. "Ah, now those were your words, Husker, not mine."

"Fine, I'll bite. What's the job?" Cyril would have killed him, present company notwithstanding, if she knew Husk had even considered the demon's offer. He couldn't explain it but the Radio Demon had a way of roping him into conversation and drawing out his curiosity. For some inexplicable reason he anticipated Alastor's replies. The Radio Demon's mere acknowledgement was addictive. Husk's resolve may be weak but he didn't entirely feel like a willing participant. There was something _wrong_.

"I'm a busy demon, as you know. I can't be everywhere at once, well," Alastor chuckled. "At least not in the way I need. And that's where you come in."

"As an errand boy?"

"Think of it as a paid internship!"

"You're still not answering my question. What do I have to do," Husk felt like his mouth moved on its own accord.

A stack of papers manifested on the counter. "Not much, really. Simple tasks, pick-ups, deliveries, and whatnot. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line"

Husk hadn't been in hell for a long time, but he knew better than to go making deals with the Devil. Well, Alastor wasn't the _actual_ devil, but it definitely still applied in this case. "No deals, no handshakes. Just, wait." Husk pushed the contract away, the simple act took more effort than what was needed. There was definitely something wrong. "Let's see where this fucking goes first."

"A trial period then," Alastor considered it. The papers disappeared with a poof, and in their place appeared an antique radio. Husk wasn't even gonna ask. "No problem, my feline fellow! I believe drinks are in order!"

"Good. No one's asked for anything since you decided to show up. What can I get ya?"

Alastor moved his head to read the menu behind Husk. "Would you recommend the White Lion Spe-"

"Nope. It ain't available!" _Real smooth, Husk._ He cleared his throat. "But uh, the rest are."

"In that case, I'll have an Old Fashioned."

Husk, not wanting to turn his back to the Radio demon for long, hurriedly prepared the drink. The order was one of the easier ones, much to his relief. Bubbles rose to the liquid's surface as he added the ice and bitters. They coalesced into the shape of a skull–a bad omen. 

He turned around to serve his customer. Alastor sat there motionless, his smile unfaltering and broader than ever. It gave Husk the fucking creeps.

"Here's to a lousy afterlife," the bartender set down the Old Fashioned and a tide of clarity overcame him. Suddenly, Husk was all aware of the consequence of his actions. The Overlord must have sensed his abrupt change in frame of mind for red engulfed the sclera of his eyes and his antlers seemed to have grown sharper and more twisted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with a [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4mt5Z5CkYGOCilkeBVJrBp?si=9SFiaVi-TZyx9IzamF31pw)


	4. Ante Up

"Husk you fucking idiot," Cyril wacked her roommate's head with a broom. She had been in the middle of finally doing her share of the housework when Husk entered their apartment. 

The place they were renting out used to be an extension of the White Lion until Bill decided to repurpose it into his employees' living quarters. Many demons stayed here before Cyril. She didn't personally know every single one of them and Bill had been very cagey about the apartment's previous tenants. In a way she understood why. Bill had gone through the cycle of loss and abandonment way more times than any of them had. The staff, which was made up of stray demons that their boss had found cluelessly wandering through hell, tends to change with the seasons, and not because they've moved onto better things. Bill didn't have to spell it out that they were in hell and that meant people are prone to being led astray all of the time. That doesn't make it easier for him though. He had to carry the burden of each soul that was lost to hell's web of sin and deception. The only proof that they existed were the faint impressions they left behind in the apartment. Their presence remained on every questionable stain on the carpet and the scuff marks on the walls. Cyril couldn't bring herself to repair any of them.

While setting up his room, Husk found a box of old photographs dating back to the White Lion's establishment. A lot of them were portraits of the staff and the bar's patrons. There was one of Bill and another demon who was unrecognizable due to some water stains. They were inside the apartment when it was still under construction. 

"Never knew the guy. I think he lived here way before I died," Cyril said when Husk asked about the image. 

There were also photos of Cyril and a smaller demon that looked like her, single-eye and all. Husk mentally reminded himself to ask his roommate about that later. The last photo that caught his attention looked like it was taken recently. It was a portrait of the bartender that came before him creating a White Lion Special.  _ Poor bastard.  _

Now, back to the matter at hand. The cat demon put both of his hands over his head to mitigate any further attacks to his noggin. "Ow, what's wrong with ya?"

"The Radio Demon?" she aimed at his shin but Husk was quick enough to avoid the assault. "Really?"

"Hey, he just showed up when I first got here. Wasn't like I was lookin' for that maniac this whole time! And were the fuck were you earlier?" 

"Not making deals with the Devil, that's for sure," Husk eyes widened and his skin would have visibly turned pale if it weren't for all his fur. Cyril felt the need to clarify. "Ugh, relax. I mean, there's Lucifer, the Devil, but Alastor is  _ the _ devil. Do you understand?" Cyril took advantage of Husk's momentary unease to hit him with a broom again. 

"Ah, god dammit Cyril! I didn't make any damn deals, didn't even shake the bastard's hand."

"He let you do that?" Appeased for now, Cyril set aside the broom she had been wielding as a weapon and took a seat on their kitchen counter. She invited Husk to do the same. 

"Yeah, weird thing is I almost did, you know? I didn't even want to talk to the guy but I couldn't stop myself. Hell, I woulda opened up about my life if he asked me to. Talking to him, it felt natural and shit. It wasn't like I was drunk, unlike  _ some people _ ," Husk side eyed Cyril who just flipped him off. "But it sure felt like he drugged me or at least gave me something. That has to be it." 

"And you're sure you didn't make any deals yesterday or at some other point in time?" 

"Nah, I'm pretty sure. He left something downstairs though."

Cyril hopped off the counter and stretched her arms. Husk gave her a questioning look. "Well, aren't we going downstairs to check it out?"

* * *

The two demons stared at the frail contraption in front of them. The antique radio had two knobs that could adjust the volume and change the station. A power button was situated between the knobs. It was red all over, following Alastor's whole motif. For something vintage it looked like it was new enough to have just been made yesterday. 

"He  _ is _ the Radio Demon. Maybe it works like a telephone?" Cyril suggested.

Husk snorted, "Well that's just fucking stupid."

"Try talking to it," the one-eyed demon shrugged, "No harm in trying."

"Hey, Al. You in there?" no response. 

"Maybe it needs to be turned on?" Cyril pressed a button. The radio did not make any sound. Husk tried changing the frequency and the volume but it gave no indication that it worked, save for the tiny light next to the power button. 

" _ Talk to it _ !" Cyril said in hushed tones.

" _ What are you being so quiet for? _ " Husk asked in a similar manner. His coworker pouted petulantly in response, urging him to converse with the possibly defunct device. 

Husk finally conceded, "Hey, radio dipshit!"

_ "Husker! To what do I owe the pleasure?" _

"Fuck!" Both Husk and Cyril jolted away from the radio. 

"It works!" she mouthed at Husk. He grinned maniacally at her in excitement. 

Alastor, unaware of their exchange, continued.  _ "I see you've learned how to work the radio I gave you. There's a joke about old cats and new tricks there somewhere. Perhaps you've reconsidered my offer?" _

"Yeah, no. I think I'm good. So, when does his Overlordship," Cyril cringed at him. "-need my assistance?"

_ "I'll radio you in when the need arises, darling. After all, this is just a trial run. Imagine the endless possibilities once you've officially signed your soul to  _ **_me_ ** _! Why, I can give you everyth-"  _

"Okay, Al. Nice talk. Bye," Husk quickly turned off the radio and sunk down onto one of the bar stools there. 

" _ Husker _ ," Cyril snickered. "You're in deep shit, gramps." 

The cat demon groaned and stood up to snag a pair of beers from behind the counter. Cyril raised an eyebrow.

Husk handed her a drink, "I'll put it on the pianist's tab. Fucker owes us in damages anyway," he uncapped both of their bottles with a claw. 

* * *

It was Husk's turn to open up the bar. Cyril had neglected her cleaning duties yesterday on account of the Overlord's arrival, and now they had an hour until opening to turn the White Lion back to its normal self. If the bar was anything less than immaculate (well, at least to Bill’s standards), the cat demon would have a lot to answer for. Husk and Cyril had an unspoken agreement not to disclose any of the events from the night before to their boss. If Bill had any questions about missing bar stools and bloody floorboards they would probably insist that they actually had 29 chairs instead of an even 30 and that the dubious patterns on the wood were already there when Husk arrived. That leaves them with one problem though. Husk was worried that if Bill got wind of the Radio Demon's visit he would throw him to the curb. If it came to that, Husk would probably take Alastor up on his offer.

Pushing his thoughts aside, the bartender held up two jagged pieces of what was once a barstool. "Where do you want me to put these?" 

Cyril replied without looking up from scrubbing the floor, "Hide 'em in the fire exit. We'll ask Felix to burn those later."

Just as Husk was about to dispose of the items, Alastor's radio started playing. 

_ We'll meet again _

Both of them groaned, "Vera Lynn? Really?" 

_ Don't know where, don't know whe- _

The radio rapidly switched channels until only static could be heard. 

_ "Husker!” _

“Of fucking course,” Husk dropped the broken stool and approached the counter. “What do you want?” he idly messed around with the various knobs and buttons but none of them seemed to affect Alastor’s broadcast. 

_ “I have a job for you. Perhaps it’s better if I explain it myself in person.” _

“So when are you coming- holy shit,” Husk fell flat on his ass and landed on a carpeted floor. He stood up to see Alastor seated behind a desk, “Give a guy some warning next time!”

“I’ll consider it,” the Radio Demon replied insincerely. “Now, your task for today is very simple, I could have sent some halfwitted imp to do it! But I suppose you’ll do.”

“Fuck you too, Al. Where am I?”

“Welcome to the Radio Tower! This is where I conduct the more  _ tedious _ side of business,” behind Alastor was a large window that reached from the floor up to the ceiling. Husk could see that they were in some sort of penthouse office situated in the heart of the citadel. He went to the glass and gazed at the towering structures. Valentino’s porn studio was erected a few kilometers away from the Radio Tower. Husk squinted and tried to look for the White Lion but it was blocked by other larger bars and casinos. 

“You are to retrieve something from our dear old Nicky,” Alastor spoke from behind him. “Tell your cabby to drop you off at Nickar’s landfill. You’ll know you’re there from a mile away. I bet you that blimp could be spotted from here on clear day. That should cover the costs of your transportation and your professional fee,” the Radio Demon handed Husk a thick envelope. 

Husk, still annoyed with Alastor, quickly snatched it, “What am I s’posed to be picking anyway?”

“Tell them you’re in need of a set of Doctor Young’s dilators,” the cat demon thought that those sounded familiar but didn’t have it in him to care. He was getting paid and that was all that mattered. 

“And remember this, Husker: they must not know that you’re working for me,” Husk grunted in response. 

“Oh, and Husker?”

“What?”

“Consider this your warning,” before Husk could ask, he was involuntarily teleported again by Alastor. It wasn't an unpleasant experience now that the bartender was somewhat aware. It felt like descending quickly in an elevator, given that the elevator had been long overdue with its annual maintenance checks and if it was made the century before. 

He eventually landed on the familiar floorboards of the White Lion (and face-first this time). Husk decided not to move even though he heard Cyril’s footsteps draw near. He had the idea that maybe if he stayed still enough the waitress would think he was dead and go on with cleaning the White Lion. Cyril’s footsteps grew heavier and doubled in number. Husk thought he probably hit his head too hard. His assumption was quickly quashed when someone obviously larger than Cyril rolled him over with a foot. 

One and a half pairs of eyes stared down at Husk. One had a look of concern and the other disappointment. 

Bill crossed his arms and gave a disapproving tsk, “You got something to tell me, kid?”

* * *

Husk tried his best to explain everything, from the Malebolgia up to his not-so-deal with Alastor. He silently thanked Cyril’s foresight to hide the broken stool. At least he had one less disaster to report. 

“So, the Radio Demon, huh.”

Husk sat and listened as his boss scolded him. His ears drooped like that of a guilty kitten’s. Based on his tirade, Bill seemed to be familiar with Alastor’s trade.  _ Them deal demons are opportunistic fucks, they’ll drain you dry, son _ . Husk didn’t think that the lion slash komodo dragon demon was the type to be easily duped. So why did the topic seem so personal to him?

Maybe there was something that Bill was leaving out on purpose. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Might as well get this first job over with,” now the bartender was confused. After giving him an earful about how Alastor was a  _ good for nothin’ shyster, _ Bill basically gave him the go signal to do the  _ manipulative asshole’s  _ bidding. 

“I believe you. I know you ain’t dumb enough to go on signing deals with some weirdos but ya’ll had an agreement. It’s not as binding as your regular soul contract, but word-of-mouth deals still hold a little power.”

Husk did not know that. He wonders what his  _ trial run _ meant on Alastor’s terms, “And what happens if I break our agreement?”

Bill sneered and his expression grew darker. The demon’s aura was almost visibly seeping out of his back.  _ Trick of the light _ , Husk thought. However, he can’t help but think about how it reminded him of someone. “Boy, you better get your ass out there ‘stead of wasting my time with your dumbass questions.” 

* * *

Bill hailed Husk a taxi. The cat demon didn’t know if one could die twice in hell but he was probably about to find out. The vehicle in question was a death trap to say the least. One of its tires were flat and the windows were nonexistent. Husk looked pleadingly at his boss who just glared at him. Best not to argue, he supposes. He entered the front seat of his potential coffin and looked for the seatbelts, which were, to nobody’s suprise, absent. Husk sighed in defeat. 

“To Nickar’s Landfill,” and with that, the taxi sputtered to life and sped off across the busy streets of Pentagram City. 

A little over a month has passed since the previous cleansing. Husk now knew that angels weren’t the benevolent beings he was led to believe. Depending on who he asked, the angels were seen as a nuisance, a necessary evil, or a perversion of all things holy. To him though they were simply part of his present reality. Shit in the afterlife goes on regardless. The hell dwellers had been given enough time to find their bearings, and the citadel was finally brimming with life.

Despite his expectations, hell wasn’t the lawless landscape that Husk expected. Sure, crime was generally tolerated and it was a rule of thumb that one must carry a weapon on them at all times, but overall the denizens the afterlife functioned as a society. It was as if an invisible hand set the limits of degeneracy that the demons of the Pentagram could carry out. And the citizens, through some unconscious collective, knew that if they were to surpass that threshold all hell would, quite literally, break loose. It was one of the few things that set them apart from the monstrosities inhabiting the outside of the Pentagram. 

The taxi skidded to a stop. Thankfully, the ride was a fairly quick and surprisingly pleasant one. Husk was dropped off at a path that led to his destination, a barren place far from the noise of the citadel. 

He followed the dirt track until he ended up at the entrance of the landfill. It was fenced on all sides with steel posts. Impaled on them were various items dating back to before Husk was born. There was the ocassional dead demon skewered onto them. Husk thought they made for a morbidly amusing decor. Hell was really rubbing off on him. 

He could see the inside of the landfill. The entire area was a deep tar pool with floating piles of furniture, toys, and other things he couldn’t discern. In the entrance stood an impressive archway with text carved onto it. 

It read  _ QUOS DEUS VULT PERDERE, PRIUS DEMENTAT,  _ with the word  _ DEUS _ scratched off carelessly. Husk snorted at the pettiness of it all. 

“Nickar?” Husk said to no one in particular. 

“Just Nick, love,” replied the landfill with a diverse cast of voices. Husk blinked. He was truly losing his mind. 

“Sweetie, down here,” Nickar caused tiny ripples in the landfill to grab the demon’s attention. Husk wonders if he’ll ever get used to hell’s abundance of oddities. 

“Sure. I’m here to pick up uh, Doctor Young’s Dilators.”

Nickar giggled, “Oh, kinky. Let me see if we have those in stock,“ the landfill gurgled violently as Nickar looked for the item. The ground around Husk shook as they rummaged through the pit. 

“There we go,” the tremors came to a stop and a pair thick tendrils shot up from the landfill. They held a box that was surprisingly spared from the tar. “And they’ve been barely used,” Nickar opened the box to reveal a set of-

_ Oh _ , Husk thought.  _ That fruity bastard’s got me picking up his weird sex shit ‘cause he’s probably one of those prudish types. Fucking weirdo.  _

“Honestly, dearie, there are a lot of new and better alternatives in the market these days. You sure I can’t get any those for you?”

The cat demon could feel his face heating up, “No thank you. They’ll do.”

“Alrighty,” Nickar set the item near the entrance. “Usually, I charge a reasonable fee. But since you’re working with Alastor, I can give you a better deal. Instead of the regular price, I’ll settle for  _ your soul _ instead,” Husk didn’t have time to react as a very sticky Radio Demon showed up right beside him. Even Nickar was startled. 

“Hello, Nicky!”, they growled upon hearing Alastor’s voice. “I see you’ve met my latest subordinate,” He put his arms around Husk’s shoulders. “I’d stay and catch but I am awfully busy today. Rain check?” Alastor snapped his fingers before Nickar’s limbs could reach them, and they were inside the Radio Tower once again. This time, Husk landed softly on his feet. Instead of carpet, he was stepping on cold tiles. Looking around, he could tell that they were in a kitchen and not the office. It was excessively red just like the rest of Alastor. 

Husk let out a sigh of relief before realizing something, “Oh, shit! I left your sex toys.”

A harsh record scratch was heard from all directions. Alastor’s smile slightly twitched, “I wasn’t after those things, dear. I just needed you to distract them so I could get this,” Alastor took out a blue leather bound book from his vest. 

_ Picayune’s Creole Cook Book. _ The edges were creased from use and the cover had been stained with various sauces. Husk couldn’t believe that Alastor would go through all that trouble for the old thing. 

“My mother used to own a copy. I have to add my own  _ modifications _ to their jambalaya recipe, but the rest of them are perfect as they are,” he set down the book and grabbed a pot. “Be a dear and fetch me some garlic.”

Husk cringed, “You couldn’t just ask me to pick up something less incriminating? Or the book itself?” he reached into a wire mesh basket and took a knob of garlic. 

“My dear, where would be the fun in that?” Alastor plucked the vegetable from the bartender’s paw. 

“Nickar found out I was working for you,” the Radio Demon stilled for a moment but Husk failed to notice. “I didn’t tell them shit, though. If everything went as planned, what would have I paid that...thing?”

“Ah, they probably weren’t as occupied with you as I thought. Nicky and I share the same proclivity for body parts,” a knife materialized out of nowhere and started chopping the garlic in midair. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that you would have lost a finger, two at most!” Husk made a disgruntled noise at that statement. 

“Don’t worry dear, the other imbeciles in this god-forsaken dive know better than to touch what is mine.” 


	5. Russian Roulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Russian Roulette is a potentially fatal game of chance involving a revolver loaded with a single bullet, in which each participant in turn spins the cylinder so that the bullet's location is unknown, puts the barrel to their head, and pulls the trigger. By extension, any reckless, foolish, and/or dangerous act or stunt, especially that in which the risk of danger or trouble is increased with the number of times one does it."

_“Mine.”_

Husk rolled his eyes and chalked up Alastor’s possessive behavior to him being well, _Alastor._ He promptly flipped off his employer before taking his leave. However, the Radio Demon invited him for dinner, and his threatening shadows made it seem more of a command than a suggestion _._ Husk didn’t think he was in the position to oppose. Looking back, he never really felt hunger like most of the other demons did. Eating was more of a chore and social obligation than an activity of daily living, or death in his case. After all, what was the point if he didn’t have an appetite to satiate. He brought it up with Alastor, who just raised an eyebrow, blatantly scandalized at his revelation. 

“That’s because you haven’t had a taste my cooking yet!” he made a spectacle of levitating all of the chopped ingredients and dropping them in the pot. 

Admittedly, Alastor could cook a mean jambalaya. The recipe, by virtue of being made by a _living human_ , called for some ingredients that weren’t available (hell isn’t really known for its rich agriculture), but thankfully he had a lot of readily available substitutes. The meat tasted gamey and the vegetables had a certain bite to them. Nonetheless, Husk ate the southern dish with gusto, and the encounter with Nickar had been briefly forgotten. 

When the Radio Demon wasn’t being his usual obnoxious self, Husk found his company slightly more tolerable. The conversation over dinner was scarce and for once Husk did most of the talking. 

“Hey Al, how many Overlords are out there and do you hate them as much as that Val guy?” the cat demon asked as he chewed on a particularly stringy piece of meat. He felt that Al was big on manners, and he wanted to know how much crass behavior he was going to let slide. 

“Valentino and I have our _differences_ ,but the other ten are respectable enough,” the Radio Demon replied, slighty strained. 

_Twelve Overlords,_ Husk mused as Alastor went on a diatribe about the pimp. All twelve of them held a tremendous amount of power that no other Earth-born demon could surpass. As Cyril said mentioned before, they all have a role to play in ensuring order within the Pentagram, but he couldn’t imagine Alastor’s hand in it considering the chaos that inexorably rode along his coattails. He finds the idea of the Radio Demon participating in hell’s worldly politics quite amusing. Alastor stuck in a stuffy room with a bunch of suits seemed very counterintuitive. Alastor, who never did anything without making a performance out of it, was probably the type to provoke his fellow Overlords’ ire just to keep things exciting. 

But here they are, multiple storeys above the center of the citadel, sharing a meal peacefully while the world around them moved on like clockwork. Alastor must have done something right, he supposes. 

Husk knew to some extent that he was only a pawn in whatever elaborate game Alastor was playing, and frankly he did not care as long as he was in on his schemes. That way, Husk convinced himself, he would be one step ahead of the opposition, and not because he didn’t want to be regarded as disposable. _Not at all_. In fact, he’d be glad to be rid of Alastor and vice versa. _Not really._ Truth be told, he was already tired of the Radio Demon’s antics. _Not in the slightest._ Really, he was getting too old for all of this exciting shit. _Definitely a lie._

In a burst of bravado, Husk tactlessly asked his benefactor what his endgame was. 

“All this Overlord shit,” Husk made a twirling gesture using his fork. “What’s in it for you?”

“I plan to devour Lucifer and one day, perhaps even God,” Alastor answered as if it were the most obvious thing ever. 

The cat demon snorted, “Fine, be like that," _it was worth a try._ He wished he could tell whether Al was fucking with him or not. 

Alastor, apropos of nothing, summoned his microphone and used it to strike Husk’s arm, “No elbows on the dining table, dear."

“Ow! Jesus, just use your words next time!” and not a second later, he found himself standing on the street across the White Lion. 

Husk entered the bar smelling heavily of paprika and garlic. Felix, who had not been briefed about the Alastor situation, was led to believe that his coworker had been on a date. 

“Oi, lover boy,” the fiery demon winked. “Boss said he wants to meet you upstairs," oh how Husk wished to be just as blissfully unaware. 

“Get fucked, Felix,” he slammed the door behind him, causing the _EMPLOYEES ONLY_ sign to flicker. 

* * *

Bill held court at the end of the dining table. The jaundiced light of the room bounced off the fibers of his mane and cast dark shadows over his regal face. Cyril sat indifferently on the table, swinging her legs idly. She gave Husk a once-over then averted her gaze to an unremarkable appliance on their kitchen counter. 

Here it goes, the dreaded vis-à-vis. 

“You look well. Complete appendages and all," Bill spoke first. 

“Al was there to settle shit before Nickar could,” Husk shivered. “You get the idea.”

Bill frowned, “I hope ya’ll don’t make a habit of pissing off hell’s royalty. What took you so long?” the clock beeped _9:00 PM._

“Little Red Riding Freak made me eat with him,” Husk pulled out a chair and sat. 

Cyril and Bill gave each other a look of horror. Both of them turned their heads to stare at the cat demon, eyes wide and mouths slightly agape. 

“Was it a uh, vegetarian dish? Seafood?” Cyril began to tap her long nails on the table. 

“No, it was jambalaya with some sorta sausage,” Husk casually explained. Cyril gagged and covered her mouth with a hand.

"What? I saw him wash his hands before and after he cooked. I know he’s a fucking creep but at least he’s hygenic.”

“Kid, I-" Bill struggled. He looked to Cyril for support but she just shook her head and got up to clear the piled dishes in the sink.

“It also had chicken, I think. I gotta ask Al where he got his tomatoes. The shit we put in our Bloody Mary’s a lousy excuse for-“

”It also had _chicken_ , huh,” Bill repeated. 

“Yeah, what about it?”

“You’ve seen any poultry farms here in hell, hmm?”

“Not yet, I mean that’s kinda fucked up,” Husk snickered sardonically. “Don’t we have this ugly regular that looked like a bird?”

“Ah Christ, here it goes,” Cyril muttered while putting back the newly washed dinnerware into the cupboard. 

A beat passed in silence as the gears in Husk’s brain started turning. When he finally put two and two together, he blanched and wildly rushed to the sink before he could pass out where he sat.

Husk dry heaved until the contents of his stomach came out in a red, viscous mess. Whatever was left of his almost non-existent appetite went down the drain, just like his chunky vomit. 

“I mean, it’s no big deal!" Cyril tried to reassure her coworker, patting his back awkwardly. "Demons eat other demons all the time. At least some of them. Tell him, Bill!"

“Not fucking helping!” Husk sputtered in between paroxysms of vomiting. 

Sounds of his retches were reduced into stridorous breaths. He coughed until he had nothing to spew out. Husk washed his face and wiped it off with an arm. Cyril handed him a glass of tepid water before he dropped down onto the cold tile. He would have thanked her but when he tried to speak his voice could only come out as a hoarse whisper. 

The three demons sat on the kitchen floor in solidarity. They all waited for someone to break the fragile tranquility of the moment. 

As expected, Bill spoke first, “Listen, you’re attached to that bastard for now. Just don’t give him a reason to kill ya and you’ll be fine.” 

_Not if I kill that asshole first_ , Husk dangerously fantasized. 

“Try not to make any verbal agreements, you hear me? His hold on ya will weaken eventually. Until then, I'll get Felix to cover for ya whenever the Radio fuck calls.” 

Bill left the bartender and the waitress, presumably to tend to the bar in their absence. Felix can only do so much to handle the regular drunkards that practically reside in the White Lion. 

_C’est la vie_ , booze isn’t going to serve itself. 

Cyril led Husk to their couch and draped a fleece blanket over his lanky body. She couldn’t coax out a proper response from her roommate so she resigned herself to her room, leaving a disturbed Husk to ruminate on whatever his tumultous mind could grasp. 

(Later that night, Husk went down and gave the Overlord's radio an earful. He didn't know whether the message came through or not. But the faint crackle of static that played at the end of his litany indicated that it was the former.) 

* * *

Alastor’s radio became a permanent fixture on the bar counter. It would occassionally play some blues or one of the Overlord's sadistic broadcasts, much to everyone’s annoyance. Husk found that the buttons were merely for show since none of them actually did anything to stop the radio’s operation. He tried keeping it in his room at the apartment but everytime he went back to work, the radio would appear on its original spot. 

This evening, Alastor replayed one of his greatest hits, _The Merry Massacre at Westpoint_. 

At this point, the patrons have learned to attune to the Overlord’s sadistic displays. By the time Alastor’s festive jingle played, orders would start to pile up because there was no fucking way anyone was going to go through half an hour of that while sober. No yoke is too heavy to bear with the help of alcohol and the complete disregard for one’s personal health. 

“At least it’s bringing in more money for the bar,” Felix quipped. 

Husk looked incredulously at his unaffected coworker, “This ain’t doing anything for ya?” 

“Nah, it kinda sounds like death metal,” _these kids and their idea of music._

Husk would sometimes talk to the radio when nobody was looking. He’d tell Alastor about a particularly annoying bar patron, and moments later the said patron would run out of the White Lion wailing in agony. Small mercies. 

Whether Alastor was doing it for his own benefit or Husk’s was inconsequential. They weren’t going to look a gift _deer_ in the mouth. 

Felix, being the nosey pain in the ass that he is, was eventually able to connect the dots with a little help, of course. 

“No fucking way. You and the Radio Demon?”

“A little busy, Felix,” Husk was pouring drink after drink for a rather large party. 

“I didn’t know that he swings that way. I knew you had it in you, you tomcat!” Felix playfully punched the irritable bartender on the shoulder 

Drinks and expletives were spilled, “Wha- get ya head out of the gutter, you overgrown lighter!” 

“Wait, so he’s not your dashing cavalier?”

“Why the fuck would you think that?” Husk was absolutely repulsed at the idea. Cyril took the drinks off of his hands before he made a bigger mess of things. 

“Boss said you and the Radio Demon were up to some _no good shenanigans_ ,” Felix emulated Bill in a terrifyingly accurate way. 

“Not that kinda _shenanigans,_ ” the bartender suppressed a shiver. “Got fucking roped into working part-time for him.”

The other demon was obviously unperturbed by the prospect of being duty-bound to the Radio Demon, “Nice. You think you can score me a gig?”

“And have Bill skin me alive? Not for a million bucks.”

_“And that folks concludes our lovely segment. Next up, we have the Ink Spots with one of their greatest hits, ‘I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire’ even though I really do, ha ha!”_

* * *

The White Lion was about to close. Unlike most of the establishments on this side of the Pentagram, the pub’s operation was limited from five in the afternoon to two in the morning. Bill could not afford to have the White Lion open 24/7 because he needed to manage his other “business”. (Again, they were in hell; almost everyone is involved in some shady shit). That and the crowd that frequented bars outside of the White Lion’s business hours were a bigger nuisance than the regulars they had. 

The plaintive blare of Creole jazz reflected the lethargic vibe of the pub. Alastor would give his own meaningful commentary after each song. That came as a surprise to Husk who thought that the radio host thing was all a gimmick. The Overlord seemed to be genuinely dedicated to his task even if It didn’t involve striking fear into the hearts of hell’s denizens. Alastor was a walking encyclopedia of musical knowledge and esoteric facts, and he actually had some avid listeners amongst the bar patrons. 

Husk lazily drank from the decanter of whatever the last active customer kept ordering. The demon remained on the counter seating, no doubt to better hear Alastor’s endless prattle. Every now and then, he would verbally disagree with the Radio Demon’s statements. It irked Husk a great deal. 

“Try to shee if you can get ‘im to play some- something. Fucking Ellie Fitzer- Fitzeg, you know what I mean, I want that. Just make the bloke shut up,” he slurred. 

“Do I look like a DJ to you?” the demon pulled out his wallet, obviously too inebriated to care, and slid Husk a thick stack of bills. Husk shrugged, _whatever_. 

“Al, you take requests?” _hey, money talks_. “I’m kinda in the mood for _April in Paris_.”

Silence. Both of them put their ears closer to the radio. They heard the scrape of a chair and the distant rustle of record sleeves. A turntable needle zipped briefly off a vinyl with a shrill _whoosh._

_April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom_

They both looked impressed, “Huh, I can’t believe that fucking worked.”

_Holiday tables under the trees_

The customer leaned back and swirled his drink languidly before setting it down for a refill. 

_I never knew the c-c-charm of spring_

The bartender’s ears perked up. The song sounded _wrong_ , and not just because the recording stuttered. There was an underlying voice that whispered indecipherable strings of words as Ella Fitzgerald’s sang reverently. The harder he tried to discern the faint sentences, a migraine would start to develop. He stole glances at the customer to see if he had heard the aberration as well. However, his face gave no indication that he had noticed how _April in Paris_ took a sinister turn. The demon stretched languidly and covered his mouth as he yawned. 

_Shit,_ Husk gasped loudly. 

The flesh surrounding the customer’s mouth came off and stuck to his hand. The demon still hadn’t noticed even as he used the same hand to hold his drink. Blood and skin freely sloughed into his brandy glass. Husk groaned in equal parts disgust and annoyance. He had barely recovered from the jambalaya incident and now there’s _this._

_I never knew my heart could sing_

The demon’s face erupted with angry blisters until his integument peeled off layer by layer, revealing the underlying raw dermis. He looked at the bartender with as much confusion as his deteriorating face could express. He struggled to talk as his vocal cords have probably disintegrated by now. All attempts to speak came out as wet gurgles. Every time he opened his mouth, the gap between his lips grew wider, their edges puckering inwards as though he was inhaling parts of himself. 

_I never missed a warm embrace_

Husk was going to be sick. He watched helplessly as the drunk slowly melted like a grotesque wax candle in a goopy puddle of viscera and bone, dissolving the bar stool as he went down. Husk leaned over the counter to see judge the damage done. Apparently, the demon’s fluids were highly corrosive and were beginning to eat through the floorboards of the White Lion. 

“Al, thanks for the fucking mess!” Husk threw his hands up in frustration.

_“I‘m glad you enjoyed the show, Husker,”_ the song continued to play in the background. This time though the demonic undertones were gone. 

_Whom can I run to?_

_“Now for your next task, you’ll need a humerus, which has already been provided by our jazz loving companion here, a roll of parchment,”_ Husk slouched and rested his cheek on a fist as Alastor recited the rest of the instructions. Just another day of working for the Radio Demon. 

_“Good night, Husker. I will be keeping in touch.”_

“Yeah, see you later Al,” Husk buried his face in his arms and mentally prepared an explanation for Bill. His boss’ patience must be hanging by a very frayed thread by now. 

_What have you done to my heart?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The White Lion Outpost's bar stool count: 28


	6. Antipositional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In chess, antipositional is used to describe moves that are part of an incorrect plan rather than a mistake made when trying to follow a correct plan.”

The walls in their humble apartment are paper thin. If Husk let out so much as a sneeze, Cyril would have complained about the noise from the next room.

_"Maybe if you tidy up that pigsty you call a room your allergies would go away! I heard cleanliness does wonders for your health."_

_"Get off my case, kid!"_

It's a goddamn miracle that his roommate didn't stir even as eldritch horrors emerged from every nook and cranny of Husk's room. He was starting to think that this wasn't the proper venue to be performing some bastardized form of voodoo.

Alastor's instructions were straightforward: perform the spell, ignore the demonic apparitions, locate the debtors, collect the debts. If only he could get past the first step, which apparently entailed creating a disaster in their apartment.

Husk sat on the floor surrounded by jars of occult materials. They were there when he got back from work. He also noticed that his bedsheets were less pleated and his accumulating collection of empty beer bottles have been discarded. Husk knew that this wasn’t his lazy roommate’s doing because since when did Cyril start cleaning on her own accord? That leaves him with one suspect. The fact that the Radio Demon knew where he lived should have bothered him more than he was, but on the other hand he was getting free maid service out of it.

_Whatever, as long as he doesn’t touch my shit_ , Husk begrudgingly thought. 

Alastor had told him that whatever abomination that appeared in the middle of all this hocus-pocus would be harmless. However, he didn't warn Husk about how much of a nuisance they would be. The formless creatures kept on knocking over various items in his room. Weirdly enough, they seem cower whenever Husk reprimanded them.

When he deemed the bothersome creatures well behaved enough, Husk spread the crushed bone from Alastor's latest victim over a unrolled sheet of damp parchment. Some patches started to char and darken as the coarse powder landed on the paper. Husk was afraid that the paper was going to catch on fire and that he'd have to start to ritual from scratch. Thankfully, the spell worked as intended.

He ended up with three paper doll cutouts, one for each soul he was to collect. They were shaped accoriding to the debtor's physique so Husk wouldn't interchange them. All he needed to do was to have them touched by the demons that owed Alastor. 

* * *

Going to the first destination required taking hell’s public transport. The subway system, dubbed Hell Metro by the denizens, has sixhundred and sixty-six stations along its pentagram-shaped route. Sixhundred fifty-four of these stations are accessible to everyone, while the remaining twelve are exclusive for the Overlords. 

Husk boarded the 62nd Avenue Line train that led to the Pentagram's main buisness district. It was packed with professional looking demons of all shapes and sizes. Husk couldn't help but feel out of place amongst the crowd of suits and briefcases. (He had forgone all clothing since he didn't have anything to cover up). Everybody must have been living in their own personal worlds because not a single demon spared a glance at the bartender. Either that or everyone was too hellbent on trying to distract themselves from the grating noises the train made as it zoomed through the Pentagram. 

The metro jingle played, signalling Husk's arrival. A rather juvenile announcer relayed the typical station reminders through the speakers. 

_"This thing on? You are now at Swyndelle Station. Be mindful of your belongings yada, yada, you know the rest. And will the passenger blocking the turnstiles move a bit quicker, yeah? I'm talking to you, asshole."_

Husk stepped out of the train and navigated Hell Metro with all the dexterity of a cat as to avoid the stampede of business demons and the other members of the afterlife’s working class. When he reached the surface, his eyes took a few seconds to adjust rusty luminescence of the heavenly pentagram. The surroundings looked like the central part of the Citadel where Alastor’s Radio Tower stood, but more packed with monotone buildings.

The structures were all concrete, steel, and glass—basic materials for the basest of beings. 

Unlike Sin Avenue, Hell’s main red-light district, there was no familiar glow of neon lights and no raunchy adverts posted everywhere within eye level. It lacked the homey tackiness that Husk had grown accustomed to. It was very foreign, uncomfortably so. Husk deduced that he probably was no white-collar worker when he was alive. He shook his head and pushed all thoughts about his past life to the back of his mind. It was like being in the Malebolgia again. Every time he came closer to the truth, to remembering who he was, an overwhelming sense of dread, guilt, shame, and some other emotion he couldn't name would wash over him. Perhaps it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. 

The first demon on Alastor’s list was a copywriter for the Big Brother Advertising Agency. The Radio Demon told him that he’ll know where the company’s building is once he gets out of the Metro. Husk was skeptical at first but he immediately saw what Al meant. 

Amongst the multitude of buildings was one that stood out because of its sheer height. It wasn’t nearly as tall as the structures in the Central Citadel but from where Husk stood, it certainly looked colossal. An enormous surveillance camera was perched above the BBAA building. It didn’t seem functional but its perpetual presence was unnerving, nonetheless. Husk started to walk towards it warily as if one wrong move would awaken some monster that lurked within. 

A pair of glass doors slid open, prompting Husk to enter the building. His sight was drawn the to spider demon manning the front desk. There were several screens surrounding her workstation, each of them displaying graphs and statistics about _business shit_ , as Husk eloquently put it. An eye bounced in between screens, its digital iris would always track the receptionist’s movements. It locked on Husk as he entered the building, but immediately when back to creeping on the spider demon. Wires were strung up like a jungle of Christmas garlands. Husk traced their tangled path and found that they were all connected to the her. It reminded him of Alastor’s shadowy tendrils. 

"I'm here for a Horacio Suarez," Husk told the employee. 

"One moment," a new set of arms emerged from the spider demon's body. She used one of her hands to answer a phone less than a second after it rang. “Yes, yes, uh huh, he’s in his 2 o’clock meeting, yes, I'll transfer your call."

All four pairs of her eyes were suddenly on Husk, "Go to the thirteenth floor, turn right and you should see him. Anyway, the cubicles are labelled, or at least they should be." 

Husk muttered a thanks and took the elevator to the thirteenth floor. 

The entire space was in complete mayhem. Telephones rang from all directions and the screeching noise of fax machines played their dreadful symphony. The office stalls were arranged in a beehive fashion, like a lattice of cheap panels desks. It was only fitting, Husk thought, since most of the workers looked like winged insects. 

Everywhere smelt like cheap coffee and egg sandwiches.

Husk followed the spider's instructions and ended up at the cubicle of, "Horacio Suarez?"

"Yeah, that's me," the demon turned his head towards Husk while his many hands continued to type on a yellowing keyboard. 

_"Suarez! Those ad jingles aren't going to write themselves!”_ a set of overlapping voices said through his computer’s speakers. 

Horacio put on a strained smile and faced the screen, "Yes sir, I'll be on them, sir.”

Husk sighed and decided to pull the Alastor Card since the guy wasn’t going to take him seriously, "I'm here on behalf of the Radio bastard.”

His faced scrunched up, "Oh, that was today? The company is going though a really busy quarter,” Horacio took a pastry from a passing food cart. 

Husk didn’t have the patience to argue And he didn’t want to spent another minute in this mini stock market crash simulacrum, "You wanna settle things with Alas-, with Al? I bet he’s not gonna be as lenient."

"Hell no! I um," he hesitated. "You think I can file a resignation form for my boss first? Sorry, bureaucracy's a bitch."

The computer let out a threatening rumble, eliciting a squeak out of the office worker, "On second thought, I think I'm ready.”

"Sure, hold on,” Husk rummaged for the paper doll. Horacio practically took it from his hands. The moment his extremities made contact with the paper, the demon’s innards disintegrated and all that was left was his empty exoskeleton. His body fell to the floor with a hollow crash. 

_Huh, so that’s how it worked._

Horacio’s boss must have sensed the lack of activity in his desk, _"Suarez? Suarez! For the love of Satan! We're already short staffed."_

Not wanting to face the disembodied voice’s wrath, Husk hastily ran to the elevator, bumping into a few demons on his way. 

* * *

The next victim on his list gave up his soul with no problem at all. He had been waiting outside the Big Brother building in a suit that bespoke power and money. _Great_ , Husk thought, _another one of those Alastor types_. When he came out from the glass doors, the demon took note of his disheveled appearance. 

He looked the cat demon up and down before speaking, “Alastor’s got you doing his dirty work, huh? Where are my manners? Ulysses, Ulysses Willis,” he firmly grasped Husk’s hand and shook it. 

Husk let his arm hang flaccidly, “I’m getting too old for this shit. Just ugh, hold this,” Husk held out the second paper doll. 

“What a crude little thing,” Ulysses chuckled. “Don’t you want to ask me about your boss before I finally go _poof_?” 

Husk considered it, but he relented, "I find that when it comes to Al the less I know about the better."

Ulysses tilted his head, "Alastor? Wasn’t taking about him. Ah, I guess you'll figure it out soon enough."

Before Husk could ask what he meant, the demon gingerly poked at the doll’s head. His fingers started to deflate as his soul transferred onto the paper at a slower pace than it did with Horacio's. 

"I got you a cab on the way to Ada’s. Oh, and tell the Radio Demon that I wish him all the luck for his future endeavors,” Ulysses said before his flesh suit collapsed onto the pavement. Husk poked at it with a foot as if it would suddenly spout the answer to all of his lingering questions.

Husk has an affinity for attracting trouble, both in his life and death. Enter Alastor. But for once he had a feeling that whatever Ulysses had to say wasn't at all about the Radio Demon. Just another layer of intrigue added to his strange afterlife. These stacks upon stacks of mysteries will come toppling down at some point like a house of cards, and Husk knows that Alastor will be the mastermind behind its downfall. 

But that will be a future problem for future Husk. For now he had a job to do. Two down, one more to go. 

* * *

Ada Gauthier lived in a penthouse suite a few kilometers away from the BBAA building. Husk clutched her paper doll, delicately tracing its burnt edges with a claw. The heavy traffic gave him time to contemplate about his ultimate fate in the hands of Alastor. Would the Overlord eventually leave him alone or was he already doomed to become a mere piece of parchment? Still, there was no concrete contract that tethered hIs soul to Alastor. But Bill did mention that word-of-mouth agreements held their own power. Husk didn’t know to what extent the Radio Demon owned him, and he felt that his uncertainty would come to bite him back in the ass someday. 

His body must have been moving on autopilot because in a blink of an eye, Husk found himself in front of a large wooden door. It opened before he could even knock. 

"You must be Ali's latest object of amusement,” a short demon in a frilly nightgown appeared under the doorframe. “Come in,” she motioned for Husk to enter, and so he did, unaware of the circumstances that landed him in front of the final debtor. 

The penthouse was a Victorian time capsule, starkly contrasting the rest of the building’s modern exterior. Oil paintings covered almost all of the wall space. Their elaborate frames only allowed a sliver of the floral wallpaper to peek through. As Husk got more into the inner parts of the penthouse, the paintings grew in number so much that they were no longer hung on the walls but were strewn all over the floor and furniture.

The smell of turpentine was strongest in the living room where an work in progress was perched on a wooden easel. Next to it was a gramophone that played a grim Lied. A piano tried to emulate the sound of a galloping horse through rapid triplets. Husk recognized the song, Schubert’s _Erlkönig_. 

The perfect soundtrack soundtrack to his demise, he supposes, with Alastor as the Elf King and Husk as the dead child. Plus, nothing good ever happens whenever a song played in the background. Not. A. Thing. 

Ada lounged on a velvety sofa, a cup of tea in hand. She made no invitation for Husk to sit down with her so he stood there awkwardly. 

“You already know why I’m here,” that was the first time he spoke since getting on the cab. 

Ada reclined on a cushion, “That is true.”

Her nonchalance unnerved Husk. She certainly didn’t look like someone who would just yield for a lowly demon. But a job’s a job, and Husk didn’t want to find out what Alastor would do if he failed to complete his task, “Let’s get this over wi-.”

“Although, I did expect him to come here personally. As one of his closest acquaintances you’d think he’d give a proper send-off,” Ada wiped off an invisible tear with a finger. “Instead, I am greeted by one of his lackeys, a new one at that,” she pouted. 

“Just following orders here,” Husk shrugged and decided to change tactics since being unassertive didn’t seem to work. “Do you want me to call Al so you can hash it out with each other?”

As soon as he uttered those last words the entire room went bloodshot red. A stationary spotlight was focused on the spot where he stood.

“Who are you that you think Ali would simply bend to your word?” Ada's expression betrayed nothing. If she had been furious with Husk, it definitely did not show on her face but manifested through the _living_ living room. The paintings, which featured the aristocracy in their natural domain, warped into vile creatures not dissimilar to what Husk had conjured up earlier. They twisted and twisted until their treacle-like limbs grew out of the canvases that held their once two-dimensional forms. While Husk was distracted with the room's wicked displays, Ada materialized in front of him. The acrid scent of turpentine grew stronger than ever. 

“The Radio Demon does not just fraternize with your kind," she pressed an offending finger to his chest. Husk tried to back away but he found himself cornered between two malicious paintings. Their appendages held him to the wall spread-eagle. 

Husk had nowhere else to run.

"Whatever alliance you think you’ve formed with Ali is nothing but a ploy, so do not delude yourself into thinking otherwise," Ada's head ballooned into a monstrous thing until her gaping maw was all that Husk could see. There was something moving within the void of her mouth, a serpentine tongue that was ready to strike. It launched at Husk and wrapped around his waist. He attempted to pry the constricting appendage off but it responded by constricting him. 

"Ada, please," Husk wheezed. One of his ribs had punctured his lungs.

"Please what, kitty? Use your words," her tongue coiled tighter. Husk could feel his organs turning into mush and leaking out of his orifices. And eye popped off from his skull and plopped on the floor. Husk didn't know when he had started screaming, but the pain soon rendered him unconscious and silent. 

His body snapped into two, just above the navel. Blood sprayed onto Ada's right cheek like a dab of rogue. 

_"Oh Ada, you shouldn't have done that,"_ Alastor's voice played over the song on the gramophone. _Gewalt_ , the opera singer sang on loop. _Gewalt, gewalt, gewalt_ , like a fevered warning of sorts. 

Ada morphed back to her normal self, "I take it he's a special pet of yours, Ali?" 

Alastor surfaced in the middle of the carnage. He was careful not to let Husk's entrails soil his slacks. 

"Fresh out of the Malebolgia, in fact!" Alastor handed Ada a handkerchief. He regarded his mangled subordinate with the same condescension he expressed at the pits of despair. "Tsk, what a bother. And here I thought I wouldn't have to regenerate him for this job."

"Regenerate? How generous of you,” she licked her bloodstained hand. “He would have made a nice snack, but you just had to interrupt me," Ada daintily wiped off the lipstick stains from the corner of her mouth. "Knowing you, you'll have him replaced in no time. Why go through all the effort of repairing a broken toy when you can get a new one from any point of the Pentagram?"

"Husker here is limited edition, one of its kind!" Alastor brought a hand to his chest in mock pain. "It pains my heart to see him gone, albeit temporarily."

“Oh, I didn’t realize that kitty here is one of his. Oops. But why does he have to be the one to bid me adieu?” Ada pouted and threw herself on the couch petulantly. Had she been any other demon, Alastor wouldn't have tolerated such childish displays. But she was Ada Gauthier and she had known the Overlord the moment his soul landed in the Pentagram. The circumstances behind his unusually fast ascent through the ranks of hell will soon die with her and with her alone. And for that she will always hold a special place in Alastor’s...sentiments. 

“In my defense, I have been very busy. And I’m here now,” the Radio Demon plucked a paper doll that had been almost gummed to the floor with Husk’s bodily fluids. He sat next to Ada and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. 

“Consider this my apology, cher,” he looked distraught for a second. 

“I trust you, Alastor. Ever since you’ve been under my tutelage I trusted you. That is why I agreed to this," she placed her hands over Alastor's, expression serious and brows knit tightly. 

He snorted, “Now, don’t get all sentimental on me, Miss Gauthier.”

“Oh, give me this at least, Ali. The doll?”

Alastor gently placed the paper doll on the space between them, “It’s been a pleasure knowing you. I find that my afterlife has been bleak before you began wreaking havoc in my Tower." 

Ada chuckled and reached for the doll, "Just say that you'll miss me, Ali. No one has to ever know."

The Radio Demon leaned back and let the record finish playing. 

_In seinen Armen das Kind war tot_ , it ended with a perfect cadence. 

"I think I'll purchase a cake later. One of those dreadful _chocolate_ flavored monstrosities you seem to be fond of. And I'll save you a seat in that bakery you always invite me to," Alastor knew that his words had fallen on empty ears, but he continued to talk about pastries and saccharine promises. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, today I offer you a chapter. Next week? Who knows... 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for sticking with this story and for all of your thoughtful comments. I might update less frequently for the rest of this month (because of finals oof) so apologies in advance. 
> 
> After chapter 10, I MIGHT revisit all of the previous chapters for editing and shit because god knows there were a lot of errors made.


End file.
